by Natasha Deen
I opened my mouth to acknowledge him, but the front door slammed open. Reverend Popov raced towards me. The hem of his burgundy cardigan flapped against his body and made him look like an overfed vulture swooping in for an after-dinner snack. He came around to my window and pounded on the pane. I rolled it down.
“Get off my property.”
What could I say? Just a sec, Reverend. The spirit of your son is waxing philosophical and I don’t want to interrupt. “I was just letting the car warm up.”
His face contorted. “You weren’t on our doorstep long enough for the car to get cold.”
“Fine, I’m taking a minute.”
“You’ve had it,” he said. “Get off my driveway or I phone the cops.”
“What’s your problem?” Even for the reverend, this was over the top.
He shoved his finger in my face. “I don’t know what your little game is, but I won’t have you making a mockery of my family.”
I slapped his hand away. “You’re doing a good enough job of that all by yourself!” Before he could say anything more, I rolled up the window.
“Good one,” said Serge. “He’s such an ass.”
“No kidding,” I muttered, and shoved the gears into drive.
Oh-uh.
Serge whipped around and stared at me. “What the—can you hear me?”
I pulled away from the curb and drove towards home. I sighed. “Yeah, I can.”
He smacked the dashboard. “Can you see me, too?”
“Yep.”
“No kidding!”
“Yeah, I’ve just got the luck of the Irish, don’t I?”
“So…how long have you been able to see me?” His words picked up speed as his excitement grew. “Did it happen when you stood up to my dad? You found your courage and your voice and stood your ground and suddenly—”
I glanced at him. “This isn’t some movie, Serge. This moment isn’t a turning point for the plot.”
“Oh.” His shoulders deflated. “So? When were you able to first see me?”
Crap.
“Well?”
“It’s a little complicated—”
His body went still. “You’ve been able to see me the whole time, haven’t you?”
I hesitated. “Yeah, yeah, I have.”
His face turned purple. “You bitch!” He went to punch the dashboard, but his fist swished through the material. “You scum-sucking, pathetic, little—”
“See? That’s exactly why I didn’t say anything. Who wants your rage?”
“Bull!” This time he managed to hit the dashboard. “You ignored me because you knew it would hurt.” His fist bounced off the side of the door. “You did it to get back at me.”
“Fine, I did! Can you blame me? You’re an asshole!”
“That doesn’t excuse—”
“You’re freakin’ right it does. You deserved everything you got!”
His face went white and memory flashed through me.
“I didn’t mean that.” I took my foot off the accelerator. “Look, at first it was a way to get back at you. I admit it, okay? But after that thing with Amber, I felt bad—”
He shoved his finger in my face. Geez. Must be a genetic thing for the men in his family.
“You say anything to anyone, and I’ll get you.”
I batted his hand away. “Did death take what little brains you had? How can I tell anyone anything? You’re dead, remember?”
He dropped his hand. “I knew there was something wrong about you,” he muttered. “Seeing dead people. Figures.” He glanced at me. “Deadhead.”
“Your lucky break,” I told him. “If it wasn’t for me, no one would know you’re still here.” I frowned. “Why are you here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be in hell?”
“Ha ha. Funny.” He shifted. “I don’t know why I’m here. I didn’t even know I was dead until I saw Nancy and your dad.”
I pulled into the school parking lot. It was deserted, which meant no one would question why I seemed to be talking to myself. “Do you remember anything?”
His eyebrows pulled together.
“Gimme a break. Either you come clean or we spend a lifetime together. Is that what you want? To spend your eternity with me?”
“Water polo practice—” His face went grey. “Mom and him being there.”
“What about after that?”
His frown deepened. “It’s just blank.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t remember—what happened? What do you know?”
“You were found in your car, in the parking lot of the old mill.”
Serge shook his head. “No—are you sure?”
I nodded.
“What would I have been doing at the old mill?”
“Uh, well, you were found with your shirt off.”
He snorted. “I definitely don’t do that at the old mill.”
“Are you sure?”
He shot me a look.
I raised my hand. “Okay, point taken.”
He stared out the window. Shoving his hands in his letterman’s jacket, he asked, “Is it possible to die without knowing it?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, but usually, you remember soon enough.”
He fiddled with the radio knobs.
“Are you sure you don’t remember what you were doing after you left the pool?”
“Why can’t I adjust the stations?”
“’Cause you’re dead.”
“But I blew out the window in Amber’s house.”
“Are you really asking or just avoiding the subject?”
“Me, not wanting to talk about my death. Go figure.”
I sighed. “Why are you haunting me?”
“Shouldn’t you know the answer to that one, Deadhead?”
“So far, all I can think of is that I made Karma mad at me.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “Who’s she? Some new kid?”
“Apparently, the myth of death bringing the ultimate wisdom really isn’t true. At least, not in your case.”
“Screw you.”
I smiled. “I’d like to see you try it.”
And the reality of him being stuck with me as his only source of companionship must have hit, because he slouched down and cursed.
“Let’s try again. What did you do after practice? Showered, dressed—”
“Went for a burger.”
“Okay. Then what?”
Nothing.
“Did you go to meet somebody?”
His face tightened. “It’s stupid, you know? You have all these plans, all these ways you’re going to make the people you hate pay for all the ways they screwed you over. But then, suddenly, you’re dead and nothing matters anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
But he only shook his head and went silent.
Chapter Thirteen
The polo game was going to start in forty minutes and already the parking lot was full. I wedged my car in between a minivan and truck. After unhooking my cell from its charger, I headed to find my friends. McNally’s pool was closed for renovations, but the Cottondale Rec Center had agreed to host the game. For this I was grateful. They had the best poutine in town.
I stepped through the glass and metal doors and, weaving around the crowd, walked to the concession stand. Nell was already there and waved me over to her spot.
“You’ll never believe who’s here tonight,” she said.
I eyed her retro neon pink shirt, stirrups, and legwarmers and said, “The 80s?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t try to be funny. It makes me feel bad—like watching a puppy trying to tango.”
I frowned. “When did you ever see a—”
“Focus, Johnson. The Popovs are here tonight.” She gave me an approvin
g smile. “I guess your acting like a lunatic earlier today worked.”
“If you’re going to call me names, I’m going to stop texting you about my adventures.”
“No you won’t. You can’t help yourself.” She pointed to herself. “Flame.” She pointed to me. “Moth.”
I rolled my eyes. “I think your brain is sputtering.”
“Me. High watt bulb.”
“Dimwit.”
“You wanna bask in your victory or are you going to start something I’ll finish.”
I grinned. “I do deserve some basking. Mrs. Popov came to a couple of games—according to Craig—but His Righteousness—”
“I know. You must have really freaked him out with the congregation thing. I think the church pays for their house, too. If he got ousted, there goes their home.”
We moved up as the customers in front took their popcorn and hot chocolate and left.
“What do you want?” Nell asked.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted Mrs. Popov sitting by the windows that overlooked the pool. “Uh, a coffee and fries.”
“Coffee? With fries?”
“It’s not for me.” I nodded to the row of plastic yellow chairs.
Nell’s gaze followed. “Oh.” She turned to the junior-high kid behind the register. “Gimme large fries, two Cokes, a mega-burger, hotdog, large popcorn—” She turned to me. “What do you want to eat?”
The kid laughed.
“She’s not joking,” I said. “She’s made medical history with her invisible tape worm.”
He frowned, not sure if I was serious.
“I’m still having the coffee. Add in a burger, change the fries to poutine, and a large Coke.” I fished into my jacket.
“I got this,” said Nell. She turned to the cashier. “Listen, can you grab us the coffee right away?”
He nodded. “What size?”
“Medium,” I said.
He returned a minute later. “Cream and sugar are over to the side.”
“I’ll be back,” I told Nell. Threading my way past the green- jerseyed McNally supporters, I headed to the bank of napkins and condiments. I grabbed a couple of sugar packets. Maybe she preferred the artificial sweeteners? I stuffed a couple of them in my pockets.
The smell of rotting wood prickled my nose. I glanced up. “Mr. Popov.”
He ignored me and took two napkins.
It ticked me off to have to play nice, but I needed to send Serge to the Great Beyond. “I was hoping we could talk—” Holding up the coffee, I said, “I’m sorry. I only saw your wife. I bought her a coffee, but if you’d like one as well—”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
There were no s-words in his sentence, but I got the distinct impression of a snake hissing.
He pushed two straws into his jacket pocket. “Stay away from me, Miss Johnson.”
I held up the coffee. “What about your wife?”
The corner of his lip curled.
“What about the coffee? Can you at least take it to her? I don’t know if she likes cream or sugar—”
“And I do?” He snarled the question then strode away.
“That went well.”
I turned and took my pop from Nell. “Yeah, he’s a real prince.” I glanced over my shoulder. Mrs. Popov sat alone, her fingers entangled with each other. I scanned the crowd, but the reverend was nowhere in sight. Handing my drink back to Nell, I said: “I’ll meet you at the pool.”
I strode to where the older woman sat and held the coffee to her. “Here.”
She turned and frowned at the cup in my hand. “What is that?”
“Coffee…I thought you might be cold.”
“Serge used to make me coffee.” Her lips pressed into a straight, narrow line. “He was always doing naughty things like that.”
Feeling like a total idiot standing there with my hand stretched out, I set the cup on the white plastic tabletop. “He was just trying to be nice—”
“By making coffee.” She shook her head. Oily wisps of hair fell across her lined forehead. “Caffeine isn’t good for the body. He knew Mikhail disapproved.” Her fingers clawed at her green cardigan. Pulling the wool around her, she said, “He’s out of pain now. There’s peace, finally.” Her eyes lost focus. “All I wanted is for him to be at peace.”
The scent of burnt sugar and mouldering excrement made me gag. “You’re not talking about your son, are you?” I wanted to hit her.
She pushed her chair back. The metal legs of the chairs shrieked against the floor; the sound echoed off the high ceilings. “I should go. He’ll be waiting.”
“What about your son—doesn’t he deserve anything from you?”
Our gazes met but if eyes were the windows to the soul, then Mrs. Popov had the curtains closed and the lights off.
I stepped back. She pushed past me. I grabbed the coffee and dumped it in a nearby wastebasket. My phone chirped. It was Nell, texting to ask what was taking so long and to just “woo-woo” Mrs. Popov.
I stuck my cell back in my pocket and turned to go. My gaze caught Amber emerging from a narrow hallway, a drink in her hand.
“Hey! Amber!” I sped to her.
She swung my way, her expression startled.
“Whoa.” I skidded to a stop. “Are you okay?” Her face was puffy. Tear left wet trails on her red cheeks.
She shoved her drink at me.
Too stunned to refuse, I took the cup. Melting ice cubes rattled in the almost empty container.
“What—?”
“I hate orange juice.”
“So why did you order—?”
She pulled at her blue and white striped scarf.
The action drew my attention to her neck and the small red bruises on her skin. “Amber—”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” The words came in a breathless rush.
The smell of mould on wood caught my nose. Mr. Popov came out of the same hallway. He glared at both of us then disappeared into the crowd.
“Did he hurt you? Did he say anything—” I reached for her shoulder.
Amber wrenched herself free. “No! It’s fine. Just stay out of it, Maggie.” She pulled her goose down jacket close to her chest and hurried away.
“Great,” I muttered. “Glad to help.” I dumped her drink and went to find my friends.
Until I walked into the rec centre , my dealings with Serge had preoccupied my thoughts. But seeing Craig, wet and hot, warming up by the pool’s side, brought my heartache back. It flooded me, sharp and ice-cold. Everyone was pairing off, finding boyfriends and girlfriends.
All I had was a maladjusted ghost who’d hated me in life and despised me in death. He’d stayed home instead of coming to the game, and his will was strong enough to keep us apart. Too bad it wasn’t strong enough to fully break the bond between us and send him across the bridge that separated the living from the dead. I scanned the bleachers. Amber wasn’t around. I spotted Nell and the gang and headed over. The whispers of kids followed me, but I ignored them.
“Finally,” said Tammy as I sat down and grabbed my food from Nell. “We can get totally caught up on everything. Your texts didn’t really say much.”
“Can’t blame me for not wanting to put details in writing.”
“But it’s true, though, you’re the one who found Serge?”
I nodded
“Geez, Tammy.” Bruce rolled his eyes. “You think infomercials are true but don’t trust the Dead Falls grapevine.” He pivoted in my direction. “I heard he was by the old mill.”
“Gross.” Tammy’s nose scrunched in distaste and made her freckles crinkle. She turned to me. “That must have been disgusting. Finding him, I mean.”
I glanced at Nell. “Uh, yeah.”
The girl to my left was almost
in my lap, she was leaning into the conversation so hard. I elbowed her to get some space and said, “Maybe we should talk about this later.”
Nell cut her eyes at the girl. “You got it. A private discussion.”
The girl sniffed and turned away.
Coach Thiessen left his players and, standing by the referee, said, “As many of you know, the Warriors lost one of its most valued players in an accident last week—”
“Accident?” whispered Tammy. “I thought Serge died of alcohol poisoning.”
“Do you think he meant to do that on purpose?” asked Bruce.
She blushed.
“—and so we invite his parents to come up as we dedicate the game in his honour.” He looked to the left.
I straightened, craned my neck to get a better view. Sure enough, Lydia and Mikhail Popov were sitting in the front row. Neither of them moved.
The coach shifted from one foot to the other. “Mr. and Mrs. Popov?”
Slowly, Serge’s dad stood.
I did as well.
Nell yanked me down. “What are you going to do?”
I leaned in. “Maybe Serge needs a send-off to…y’know…go.”
“And you think confronting his parents in public will make them agree to a memorial.”
“Shame is a highly unused negotiation tactic.” Rising, I made my way poolside. I got to the floor at the same time Mr. Popov reached the coach.
He took the microphone. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. Handing the mic back, he turned.
“Reverend Popov.”
He froze at my voice. Only his eyes tracked my position.
“Sir, I want to ask—on behalf of the town—for you to reconsider your decision about Serge’s funeral.”
“We already discussed this.” He pressed the words through closed lips. “You must remember the exchange, Miss Johnson. It was when you trespassed onto my property.”
“Sir, please. I understand your feelings—” I moved towards them and grabbed the mic from Coach Thiessen.
He blinked, stunned, and reached for it, but I was already moving away. “I know there were issues between your son and many of the townspeople. I was his favourite target, but sir, even if it was a crappy relationship, it was a relationship. I have a right to say my goodbyes—to say the things to him in death that I couldn’t in life. I have a right to have closure.”